Just in time for the Darwin bicentennial

Album Review: The Fray's second album shows a subtle, contemplative evolution

The Fray

“The Fray”

RCA

Critics have been uniformly harsh toward – or at least dismissive of – the band since its 2005 debut, “How to Save a Life,” citing unimaginative similarities to U2, Coldplay and other “widescreen” pop-rock. In the Fray's world, success is measured by connecting to fans and moving units. Anything resembling praise is a bonus.

The Fray's self-titled sophomore effort may not change any minds, but it's also a subtle evolution for the Denver band. Anyone who flocked to Isaac Slade's prosaic, tumbling piano style and affected vocals will embrace the new disc as a continuation of the band's debut. The elements that made the songs perfect soundtracks to a half-dozen TV dramas are in ample supply.

What's less immediate is the new album's creeping solemnity. The Fray has never been an overly self-conscious act, but here Slade and his bandmates sound downright contemplative, emphasizing both their quieter (“Ungodly Hour”) and louder (the end of “Say When”) extremes.

“Syndicate,” the opening track, emerges from a sheath of distorted 6/4-time guitar while Slade sings Halfway around the world lies the one thing that you want, setting a tone of yearning that permeates the disc.

It's a satisfying turn for the band, pairing its typically ambitious melodies and radio-friendly production with a steely confidence and clear emotional depth. Unlike, say, the Killers, the Fray isn't going for a grand, redefining artistic statement on its sophomore effort (that, and “How to Save a Life” wasn't nearly as fun as the Killers' first disc).

This is more personal stuff, some of it practically bordering on emo (see the chorus of “Absolute”). “You Found Me,” the band's current hit, drops vague references to all manner of heartache while drummer Ben Wysocki swaps beats between verse and chorus to emphasize Slade's spiraling piano.

“Never Say Never” is less insistent – and unfortunately riddled with cliches – but the band picks up the pace with “Where the Story Ends,” smartly letting Slade's voice take the helm during the verses. The cool, buzzing “We Build Then We Break” follows the placid “Ungodly Hour,” marking the disc's most Radiohead-esque point in both its jittery construction and appealingly thorny guitarwork.

“Happiness” is the disc's logical end point, an exhausted howl that culminates in a choir of “yeahs!” feeling less triumphant than they are sympathetic.